


Misery Acquaints

by blackglance



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Bickering, Case Fic, Fix-It, Gen, Plotty, Shooting Things, Uneasy Allies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 16:04:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackglance/pseuds/blackglance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not so much a fix-it as wholly AU after 2x11. </p><p>John Reese may be having a bad day, but it's nothing on the day Agent Donnelly is having.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story carries the unofficial subtitle: _I Reject Your Reality And Substitute My Own._
> 
> Research? What is research? I apologize for everything that’s factually wrong about this story — which, given the large swathes I made up, is probably most of it.

_Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.  
\- William Shakespeare, “The Tempest”_

The cell block was large and empty; when the door swung open, the noise rang through the block like a warning, echoing up through its high ceilings and reverberating through its maze of metal and concrete. Life at Rikers was much like any other prison and, in his time, John Reese had been personally acquainted with several. Not in the United States, necessarily, but that didn’t matter. Wherever you were, whatever the horrors, whatever the conditions, one rule held true.

Routine was king. 

Slouched back on his cot, waiting for the world to begin, Reese knew the onset of hard, brisk footsteps heralded trouble. But then, in his line of work, the unexpected usually meant bloodshed. He’d become practiced in ensuring what blood spilled wasn’t his.

He listened to approaching men — at least a half dozen, possibly more — with cautious interest. It was one of the few benefits of incarceration; the men with guns, on the whole, weren’t allowed to shoot him.

Agent Donnelly was leading the pack, his face as hard as hewn stone. His usual dark suit jacket had been replaced by his FBI windbreaker; all the better to hide the bulletproof vest strapped across his chest. It seemed that Reese had a field trip in his future.

If Reese was himself, he’d probably say as much, with a playful twist of the mouth and the mocking tone that was so quick to make Carter roll her eyes. But John Warren couldn’t afford to antagonize the Feds, however much he might have wanted to.

Donnelly pivoted in front of Reese’s cell. For a fleeting instant, the man’s mask cracked; anger glowed brightly beneath the fissures. Reese watched as a handful of men — prison guards and agents, all armed to the teeth — assembled behind him. There was a slight young woman in a neat black suit on his flank. Her thick blonde hair was tied back into a ponytail and she wore thick-rimmed black glasses that pinched her face. The warden, an older man Reese had had the misfortune to meet on several occasions, hung in the back, seemingly disinterested in the proceedings.

Detective Carter was nowhere to be seen.

“Open the door.” Less an order than the bark of a man in a bad mood. The warden gave Donnelly a sour look, but did as instructed.

The guards swept inside, cuffs at the ready. Reese was waiting for them — compliant, obedient, well-behaved. He even flinched a little as the cuffs clicked shut, for effect. If they appreciated the courtesy, they showed no sign of it.

The warden’s eyes flickered over Reese’s face as he was led out of his cell. Reese was John Warren this morning, a familiar mix of confusion and fear he’d worn since the day of his incarceration. The fear had softened some, since then. The seventy-two hour holding period had come and gone. Hopelessness was setting in.

Reese slouched a little, the better to hide his size, as Donnelly whispered something to the woman in black. He was definitely agitated; the man was always tense, wound tight like a spring by too little sleep and too much caffeine, but this was different. His body language put Reese in mind of an animal held fast by a leash. In control, but choked by his own limitations.

It must have been a command, because she broke from the group with an impudent purse of the lips. She glanced back as she walked. If she smiled at Reese a little, the others didn’t seem to notice.

His own mouth quirked lightly in response — not a smile, but close enough.

“Are we done here, warden?” There was a dangerous edge to Donnelly’s voice and Carter’s absence weighed heavily on Reese’s mind.

Reese looked back to the warden. The man had disliked Donnelly from the instant they’d met and time had done little to mellow their relationship, but he found no safe harbor there. The man’s eyes were hard as granite.

“He’s all yours,” the warden said, gruffly. The guards stepped back and the agents stepped in to take their place.

“Let’s move.” Donnelly was pacing, his restlessness betraying his impatience. “Agent Simone will meet us at the convoy.”

Reese was shoved gently forward. The long walk began. “What happened?” he asked, casually.

Donnelly turned on him. “You will not speak to me. You will not speak to _anyone._ Is that clear?” Hate rose in his voice like a swell in a storm, his boring gray tie suddenly tight like a choke-chain around his neck. It passed just as quickly; even as he turned away, the anger had bled from his face and the stone mask had returned, sliding into place with absolute certainty.

For the first time since Reese’s capture, he felt fear.

*

The convoy, such as it was, was small and unassuming. Three unmarked vehicles had been parked outside the main staging area, their engines idling in the November morning chill.

To most, the cars would have seemed a concession to Donnelly’s overbearing need for secrecy — Reese never figured federal agents to be a talkative bunch, but, from the hushed, gossipy conversations playing out behind him, only Donnelly and the drivers knew where they were going — but Reese recognized the alterations immediately. Military-grade armor plating, probably. Bulletproof glass was a certainty.

The asphalt was slick with rain after an early morning shower, but the cars themselves were dry. They hadn’t been waiting long.

The click of practical heels against concrete. Reese turned to look; Agent Simone had emerged from a side door, a clutch of files in one hand and her bulletproof vest in the other. Her eyes flicked skyward, judging the risk of rain.

Donnelly gestured her over, accepting the files with a distracted nod of acknowledgment. It was as close to communication as he’d come since the cell block; whatever was driving him, he was keeping the truth close to his chest.

Reese eyed the files, careful to keep his interest discreet. Joss Carter’s personnel file was at the top of the stack; a darker shade of NYPD tan that contrasted against the buff manila folders bundled beneath it. What few names he could make out, he recognized. FBI.

“We’re leaving.” Donnelly crossed to the center car as the low rumble in his voice sent the other agents scrambling. Their numbers had swelled since the cell block; they now numbered eight, all told, and they moved to their stations with practiced efficiency. “Warren rides with me.”

Reese felt a pair of insistent hands compelling him forward. He stumbled, but found his footing and started walking. Behind him echoed the light click of sensible heels.

“Somebody’s in a bad mood.” Reese kept his tone light, conversational. It was a gambit, but locked in a car with Donnelly he’d learn nothing, no matter the circumstances. He was running out of cards to play. “What’s got him so riled up?”

Simone didn’t respond, not at first. Then he felt a faint pressure against the fingers of his closed fist, still shackled behind his back. He let his hand fall open; after a moment, he felt a small, thin object being pressed into his palm. Light as a feather, hard as a wire.

A paper clip.

Harold.

His hand closed around the clip, threading it carefully between two pinched fingers. Invisible to the others, at least for now.

He allowed himself to be led to the car. Donnelly was hunched in the passenger’s seat, fiercely studying the files now scattered across his lap. For his purposes, John Warren had ceased to exist.

Reese should have felt relief. The burden of proof was high; Donnelly’s strong sense of professional ethics, paired with his own admiration for Detective Carter and her abilities, meant he wouldn’t act without concrete evidence of her guilt. And those files, if Reese was right, contained the professional biographies of the entire Man in the Suit task force.

If this was a mole hunt, she had a chance — and if a chance was all they had, he could work with that. He’d brought down governments with less.

But doubt clung to him like a bad smell. That last outburst, and the tense, awkward exchanges that preceded it, had been personal. Agent Donnelly was many things, but prone to fits of moodiness and temper was not one of them. For all his faults, the man would sooner see the sun rise in the west than allow emotion to affect the soundness of his judgment.

And he’d been so fond of her.

Simone held the door open, obligingly guiding his head with her hand as he climbed inside, before circling around to the driver’s seat. Reese’s lips quirked appreciatively as she settled into the car, catching his gaze in the rear-view mirror.

Donnelly, still lost in his files, didn’t notice.


	2. Chapter 2

They followed the lead car for an hour, at least; through traffic, over bridges and then north, north for miles, until the bustling chaos of the city gave way to strip malls, forests and fields and other trappings of suburbia.

Reese let his head rest against the glass. He had tracked every turn, every detour, every on-ramp and every exit lane since they’d left Rikers Island, but he kept his attention firmly on Simone. Double agent or not, she seemed like a strange fit for the FBI. She tapped her fingers lightly against the steering wheel as she drove, her head bobbing along to a rhythm only she could hear. Not for the first time, Reese wondered how Harold had found her, much less secured her a place on the detail.

Every once and a while, their eyes would meet in the rear-view mirror and he’d turn away, not before catching the faintest glimpse of a conspiratorial smile.

It was risky behavior, but Donnelly had been lost to both of them from the moment they’d left Rikers. He’d spent the entire drive a statue in the passenger’s seat. Watching the man, you’d would think he was trying to extract the information he wanted through sheer strength of will. 

For the last twenty minutes or so, he’d taken to chewing his lower lip as he read. Whatever he was looking for, he wasn’t finding it.

Up ahead, the lead car turned smoothly onto a side road that seemed to take them looping back through the trees. Simone followed obligingly, directing the car in an easy arc as the convoy continued on its way.

Her fingers stilled. The playfulness had left her face and all that remained was cold, calculated focus, her eyes locked on the sleek, black road stretched out before them. 

Donnelly must have felt the turn because his head snapped up, as though freshly woken from a dream. The slumbering bloodhound was evidently more alert than he’d seemed. “Wait.” He was staring out the windshield at the encroaching trees, his brown eyes widening in confusion. “Why are we turning?”

“I don’t know, sir.” Simone’s face artfully mirrored his bewilderment. “The lead car turned here.”

The way ahead was narrow and isolated. The road stretched on, edged by ditches and flanked by forest on either side, until a jog in the road sent it into a blind curve that turned off into the unknown. The lead car, at least, seemed sure of its bearing; it made no effort to reverse course or to slow down.

Reese watched the back of Simone’s head, her blonde ponytail bobbing lightly as she spoke with Donnelly, her voice tense. Whatever Harold had cooked up, it would be happening soon. Reese couldn’t know what he was thinking, but a man could accomplish a lot with a couple of fallen trees and a few well-aimed canisters of tear gas.

Still, he watched the little drama playing out in the front seat with wary cynicism. There were too many unknowns, and the unexpected didn’t generally break in his favor.

Donnelly pulled the radio from his belt, voice agitated. “Alpha,” he said. He held down the transmission button, but nothing seemed to happen. “Alpha, do you copy?” He gave the handset a shake and tried again. When that failed, he let it drop from his hands. It clattered into the well of the passenger’s seat as he lunged for the on-board radio built into the dashboard. 

It didn’t work. He slid the gun from his holster, watching the approaching turn with dawning horror. “Stop the car.”

“But sir,” Simone protested.

“U-turn,” Donnelly roared. “Now.”

But it was too late. There was a whistling sound, high and familiar, and in a sickening instant Reese realized the extent of his mistake. He was frantically working the cuffs from his wrists when the lead car exploded, thrown backwards into the air. Fiery shrapnel rained down from the sky. The sound was deafening.

It must have been a direct hit; the flaming wreckage was tumbling toward them at breakneck speed. Simone acted fast, wrenching the steering wheel to one side and the car veered wildly, tires screaming, before crashing headfirst into the ditch.

The impact hurt. Not as much as a flaming car to the face, but for the agents in the front seat the airbags did little to cushion the blow. As for Reese, locked in the back…

It was ultimately the familiar sound of gunfire that called Reese home. His eyes opened to the sickly taste of copper in his mouth and the sight of Simone slumped, groaning, over the steering wheel. Donnelly was awake and scrambling for the door handle, his gun drawn. Blood was spilling across his high forehead from a gash near the hairline. If he’d noticed the injury, he didn’t show it.

Simone, still woozy, pushed herself upright. The shock on her face was genuine. 

Maybe she was an innocent in all this, after all.

“Audrey, are you all right?” Donnelly was shouldering the door open, already halfway out of the car. He looked back to where Simone was nodding weakly. “I need you to cover me. Come on.” And he was gone, up the slope and out of the ditch with unfaltering determination.

Simone seemed less than eager. She opened her door and climbed outside, gingerly holding her head.

Reese’s hands were free, the paper clip had seen to that, but the car’s doors remained locked. In any other car, on any other day, he’d kick out the rear window and make a break for the trees, but this time the glass was bulletproof. A sturdy mesh separated him from the front seats; he threaded his fingers through the grate, tugging uselessly. He locked eyes with Simone. “Let me out.”

There was another quick burst of machine gun fire and an unnamed voice cried out in pain. Her head jerked to the noise, like an animal. Her voice was shaking with disbelief. “They tried to kill me.”

“They tried to kill all of us.” Reese’s voice was strained. “Whoever hired you, I’m guessing there’s been a change of plans.”

She slammed her own door shut, wedging open the back door on the driver’s side. She bent her head down, catching Reese’s eyes as he crawled towards her. “Get me out of this,” she said, pleading. “Get me out of this and I’ll give you my cut. Whatever you want.”

Reese pushed past her. “Lady, like I keep telling your boss — I’m not for sale.”

*

Reese climbed to the crest of the ditch, crouching carefully amid the uncut grass. The lead car, or what was left of it, was belching acrid black smoke into the air. The heat of the fire had scorched the asphalt and twisted hunks of metal and worse were strewn across the road like discarded puzzle pieces. It made for a less than pleasant picture.

The surviving agents — apart from Donnelly, who was nowhere to be seen — were clustered behind the surviving car, returning fire. They seemed to be holding their own; the vehicle’s structural reinforcements were serving their purpose, shielding them from the worst of the attack. It would take serious firepower to dislodge them now.

The attack had come from the woods. Four men had hunkered down among the trees on the far side of the road, their fire focused on the car. Reese quickly surveyed their defenses; the gunmen carried an eclectic mix of weaponry and, while passable, their battle tactics were rudimentary at best. Hired killers, then, but not professionals.

A fifth man, a broad-shouldered ex-marine with close-cropped tawny hair, soon joined the others, crouched in the far ditch. There was a rocket launcher strapped across his back.

Reese looked to Simone, who had crawled up beside him. “Give me your gun.”

“No.” She sounded almost petulant. “Get your own.”

Reese looked out across the field of play. There had already been casualties on both sides; two gunmen, cut down during an earlier wave of the attack, were dead on the road, soaked in their own blood. The nearest was only a few feet away from the burning car, his gun fallen uselessly at his side. Reese shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Reese hoisted himself out of the ditch and set off toward the flaming car at a run. In the bright orange prison jumpsuit, he made for one hell of a target, but both sides had been blinded by combat. It would have been the easiest thing in the world for him to slip unnoticed into the woods, free and clear for the first time in almost a week, but he couldn’t do it. Looking back, he saw an agent catch a stray bullet in the neck. The man reached up, trying to hold back the torrent of red with dying fingers. Reese remembered the rocket launcher.

Better for his conscious, or what was left of it, to even the odds.

He found Donnelly crouched behind the far edge of the burning wreckage — far enough away to avoid the heat, but close enough to use the smoke as cover. It had to be working; even Reese hadn’t seen him and, unlike the rest of the pieces in play, he’d been paying attention. Once again, the man’s narrow-minded focus was Reese’s salvation. He was watching the men in the trees like a hunter stalking his prey. Understandably, the man with the rocket launcher seemed to be commanding the lion’s share of his attention.

Reese held back. Startling the man would only get one of them shot.

There was a crack of gunfire from behind them. Reese ducked as the first of the bullets lodged themselves into the twisted carcass of the vehicle at their backs. Three gunmen, apparently impatient with their colleagues’ progress, had rounded the blind corner on foot. While the wreck provided Reese and Donnelly cover from the men in the trees, the opening of a second front left them suddenly exposed.

Donnelly spun around, firing quickly. He must have had better aim than Reese thought; the first of the men lurched forward, then stumbled to the ground. 

The man’s luck didn’t hold. A split-second later, Donnelly made a sound — an intake of breath, sharp between clenched teeth. A bullet had torn through his windbreaker and red welled from his shoulder.

Reese pushed him down, out of the line of fire, and swung back to the approaching threat. Two quick bursts of gunfire later and they were down. Reese looked down at Donnelly; the color had drained from the man’s face and his features sat somewhere between stark disbelief and fear.

He tried to look non-threatening. Bloodied and carrying a stolen machine gun, it was difficult. “How bad are you hit?”

Donnelly shoved his gun into Reese’s face. “Drop your weapon, dammit, or _so help me—_ ”

“Can we not do this now?” He pushed the gun aside, clambering over the fallen agent to get a better look at the men in the trees. There was only so much a car could burn; soon, the smoke would clear and they’d lose their advantage. Besides, the man with the rocket launcher had started to reload. “Right now, we have bigger problems to worry about.”

“Then call them off,” Donnelly growled as he pushed himself upright with a wince of pain. “They’re _your people_.”

Reese shook his head. There was no point in arguing with him, at least not now. He looked to the far ditch, then to the man with the rocket launcher, preparing to fire. There was still time. “Just stay here,” he said, “and _please_ try not to shoot me.”

He broke away from the burning vehicle, hitting the far ditch at a sprint. The gunmen, back in the trees, didn’t seem to notice or care. Reese held up the machine gun, squeezing the trigger. The spray was messy, but effective. It got their attention.

The men in the trees erupted in panic, ducking and covering as best they could amid the forest’s gnarled trunks and fallen branches. The man with the rocket launcher stumbled — wounded, from the way he clutched his arm, but not seriously. He swung round to meet Reese, all thought of the FBI forgotten. He fired.

The missile flew screaming toward him. Reese dove into the ditch, throwing his hands over his head as the explosion behind him sent a hailstorm of dirt, rocks and other debris into the air. 

When Reese looked up, moments later, two men had broken off from the pack. They had dropped down into the ditch and were charging in his direction, armed and ready. Bullets bit into the earth around him as he ducked down, straining for his gun.

Behind him, two gunshots joined the chorus and, suddenly, the men were staggering forward, clutching their chests. Ribbons of bright crimson flowed through their fingers as, one after the other, they dropped to the ground.

Donnelly landed in the ditch behind him with a pained grunt, his gun trained on Reese’s back.

Reese’s voice was strained. “I thought I told you to stay by the car.”

“Do I seem like I’m in a trusting mood, Mr. Warren?” Donnelly sneered. “Because I can assure you that’s not the case.”

Reese watched the three remaining gunmen trying to regroup. They seemed to be having difficulty with the concept of a two-front offensive. “Well, if you’re going to be difficult, who do you want? The big one, the scrawny one, or the goatee?”

Donnelly leaned over Reese’s shoulder for a better look. “Goatee,” he answered finally. “And scrawny, if he breaks right.”

The men in the trees were scrambling, shooting without purpose and hollering instructions into their radios. Reese smiled thinly, pushing himself to his feet. “Then let’s go.”

*

Donnelly was breathing hard, his gun still trained on target — the last of the gunmen, now little more than a bloody, crumpled heap in the dirt. The blood from his shoulder was running the length of his arm now. The thin red stream dribbled down from his sleeve and along the length of the gun, landing in fat drops in the soil below.

“I never did get an answer.” Reese was standing over the big one — scrawny had broken right, after all — and was searching his pockets. No identifying paperwork, but most of the gunmen had matching tattoos. Gang affiliation, maybe. “How’s the shoulder?”

Donnelly raised his eyes to meet Reese. His gun followed in short order. “Drop your weapon.”

His tone was lightly chastising. “Just when we were starting to like each other.”

“Thank you,” Donnelly said. The words didn’t come easily, that much was clear. “For what you’ve done here. I promise you, in my report I’ll stress the value of your assistance. Hopefully it will be considered during sentencing.”

Reese searched his face for a weakness, a vulnerability, something to exploit. He could disarm Donnelly and disappear, but that would be a temporary salve for an all-too-permanent irritation. He watched him carefully, wondering how far he could push the doubt now flickering in the man’s eyes.

The crack of gunfire, loud and unexpected, cut the air, making Donnelly jump. It wasn’t a machine gun, or any of the other high-velocity toys their attackers had brought with them. No, it was a handgun. The blood in Reese’s veins ran cold.

They both turned in time to see a dark-haired, female agent stumbling out from behind the surviving car. She made it three paces before slumping to the asphalt. 

Reese was already running. “Simone!” he called out as two more shots sounded behind the car.

“Simone?” Donnelly was on his heels again, all thoughts of securing his prisoner apparently forgotten. “What does she have to do with anything?”

They found Agent Simone behind the car, the bodies of three agents, freshly dead, bleeding at her feet. She had her radio pressed to her ear and her gun in her hand. From her tone, the conversation she was having wasn’t happy. “I know, I know it wasn’t. But it’s not my fault, he—”

Reese trained his gun on Simone, who responded quickly in kind. “She’s working with the hit team. Who do you think helped me escape?”

“Jesus Christ, Audrey.” Donnelly spat the words in disgust as he raised his weapon.

“I have to admit, I’m disappointed.” Reese’s voice was soft and predatory. “I thought you didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“If nobody got hurt, I wouldn’t get paid.” She smiled impishly, a dark parody of the looks she’d given him in the car, and slid the gun over to Donnelly. He was still wearing the vest beneath his bloodied windbreaker. She aimed straight for the head. “I have eyes on target,” she said into the radio, her tone distracted. She looked at Reese. “We’re not here for you. Just go.”

“Like I keep trying to tell your boss, here, I don’t like to shoot federal agents unless I have to. But, Audrey,” Reese smiled, but there was no warmth or humor in it. “You’re forcing my hand.”

“I don’t see why you’re fighting this.” The woman all but rolled her eyes. “He dies, all your problems go away. It’s win-win.”

Reese could feel Donnelly’s eyes on the back of his neck. It was true and they both knew it. If it came to it, Donnelly could take out Simone or Reese, but not both. There just wasn’t enough time. “You like making deals, don’t you?” he said, voice smooth as silk as the playfulness returned to her eyes. “Hurt him and I shoot you.”

The warmth in her face hardened into a slab of glacial ice. She swung the gun toward Reese. Unlike Donnelly, he was fully exposed; his thin orange jumpsuit offered him little protection. Her voice dripped with distain. “Suit yourself.”

The shot came from behind him. Simone slumped backward, what was left of her head tumbling with her as she fell. Reese turned back to Donnelly, his eyebrows raised. When he spoke, it was with a playful twist of the mouth, his voice light and irreverent. “Thank you, Nicholas. That was very considerate of you.”

Donnelly turned on him, growling. “ _What in god’s name is going on?_ ”

Reese knelt beside the body, carefully prying the radio from the dead woman’s fingers. It was sticky. He wiped his hands against his jumpsuit. “Who would want to see you dead, Agent Donnelly?”

“Other than you?” Donnelly said. He was pacing again, as if willing his composure to return. He ran a nervous hand across his hair. It returned to his side, sticky with blood. “No idea.”

“There were a lot of FBI agents in those files of yours.” Reese watched his expression carefully. If he was going to get to the truth about Carter, this was it. “Maybe you found something you weren’t supposed to find.”

Donnelly’s voice took on a hostile edge. “I was looking for moles — your moles, in fact. I’d been concerned about a leak for some time, but after the phone call this morning…” His jaw set and his eyes were hard. “I know about Carter.”

There wasn’t a lot left in the world that could still hurt him, but the sentence landed like a sucker punch to the gut. “She was just trying to do the right thing,” Reese said, shaking his head. “She doesn’t deserve this.”

Donnelly’s face was grim. “And who’s fault is that?”

The radio let out a burst of static, crackling ominously in Reese’s hands. “Stay where you are,” an unknown, male voice commanded, the words distant and indistinct. “I repeat, stay where you are. Backup is _en route_ , over.”

“Call off the dogs,” Reese said, quickly. He held the handset to his mouth. “Target is neutralized, over.”

The radio fell silent. Reese looked at Donnelly and, for a long moment, it felt like something might have finally gone their way. The handset started to hiss. “ _Who is this?_ ”

Reese sidestepped the blood pooling on the asphalt. “They can’t be too far off,” he said, tossing the handset to Donnelly, who fumbled the catch but managed to awkwardly hug the radio to his chest with his good arm. He clipped it to his belt.

Reese ran his hand across the hood of the car before popping it open. The reinforced doors had survived the onslaught largely intact, but the engine hadn’t been afforded similar protection. The results weren’t pretty. “Looks like this is the part where we run.”

“Looks like.” Donnelly slid the handcuffs from his belt, his gun aimed squarely at Reese’s chest. “John Warren, lower your weapon.” He hesitated, wavering. “Please.”


	3. Chapter 3

Donnelly, for his part, capitulated on at least one point.

There was a first aid kit tucked beneath the seat of the surviving car, a comprehensive selection of bandages, antiseptics and gauze that had been stowed away in the event of an emergency. 

Reese hoisted the sturdy red bag out of the car and zipped it open, rifling through its contents. He understood government red tape well enough to know that the use of even a band-aid would mean forms to complete and paperwork to file but that, like the hole in the man’s shoulder, was Donnelly’s problem.

Donnelly stripped off first his windbreaker, then the vest, then set about unbuttoning his shirt. The wound, from a distance, wasn’t serious. The bullet had gouged a deep ravine into the man’s shoulder; a graze, but less than pretty. “Hurry,” he said. The man’s gun was drawn, but he seemed to be carrying it more as a security blanket than a means of controlling Reese. He watched Reese work with the look of an elk who’d struck an uneasy alliance with a mountain lion. “We don’t have much time.”

Reese crossed to where Donnelly was leaning back against the car, waiting. He had the bare necessities — the gauze, the tape, the antiseptic — and a couple more, besides. The cut on the man’s forehead was superficial and Reese had wounds of his own, but if a couple of butterfly bandages could earn him goodwill with a man capable of destroying a friend’s life, he’d give it a try.

Donnelly hissed through clenched teeth as Reese pushed the gauze into his shoulder. He held it in place, watching as Reese cut lengths of tape with his teeth. “Why didn’t you let her kill me?”

“Why?” The tape tore in his mouth. The taste was foul. “You disappointed?”

“We both know what you’ve done,” Donnelly said, voice tight, “and we both know what you are. So why am I still here?”

Reese smoothed the first of the strips into place, watching Donnelly wince at the pressure. “We passed a couple of buildings, just before the turn.” He tore another piece of tape free, starting the process anew. “If we move quickly, we can make it.”

“It couldn’t have been Carter,” Donnelly continued. “You didn’t know I had her until a few minutes ago, I could see it in your face.” He was studying him with the same intensity he’d earlier focused on his files. “But you suspected. You think I’ll help you clear her of the charges, is that it?” He straightened a little, satisfied with his own reasoning. “Yes, I think I understand.”

Reese shook his head. He wasn’t moved to laughter easily, but for the first time in a long while he was tempted. He held his tongue, opting instead to press another piece of tape flat against the man’s bare shoulder. Once he’d finished, he stepped back and looked up. “Will you?”

Donnelly wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You mentioned buildings back before the turn,” he said, doubtfully. “I didn’t see any.”

“You weren’t paying attention,” Reese said, wiping his hands against his stained jumpsuit. He looked around. “You need to open your eyes sometime. You never know what you’re going to miss.”

Donnelly shot him a look — a dirty, hateful look that edged on hurt. He pulled the shirt closed, a bloody rag of a thing at this point, and snapped the bulletproof vest back across this chest. He even shrugged on the windbreaker, wincing in pain as he moved. When he was finally finished, he turned the gun on Reese.

Reese arched an eyebrow, but obligingly held out his hands.

*

They weren’t moving fast enough, Reese knew it. Between the first aid session and a macabre scavenger hunt for extra ammunition and a working cell phone, they’d lost more time than they could afford. The cell phones had been an interesting wrinkle; according to Donnelly, he hadn’t let his out of his sight since before meeting Simone at the prison. Whatever had been done to disable it had to have been done beforehand.

The forest seemed to stretch on forever. The mud sucked at their shoes as they walked, crows swooping and diving overhead. Apart from the fact that hired killers would be descending on them at any minute, it was shaping up to be a beautiful day.

Reese glanced back over his shoulder. Donnelly was carrying a borrowed machine gun in his good hand. He wore a mask of sober professionalism, but it was just that — a mask. He had the look of a man unaccustomed to faking moral certainty. “Where is she?” he asked.

“In custody.” Donnelly sounded less than convinced. “Where she belongs.”

“That’s a shame,” Reese said, conversationally. He tested the handcuffs as he walked; secure, but that wasn’t a problem. He had the paper clip. If necessary, he could shuck them in a heartbeat.

Above them, two of the larger birds had turned on a third; they squawked and shrieked as they half-flew, half-tumbled through the air in violent pursuit. Reese watched them curiously. “You said there was a phone call.”

“This morning,” Donnelly acknowledged. “The caller ID startled her, so when she excused herself, I followed. When the subject of the phone call became apparent, I… intervened.”

It was a question to which Reese already knew the answer. “What subject was that?”

“You,” Donnelly sneered.

The birds fought in the air. Reese kept his tone distracted. “I think there was more to it than that.”

“She told me afterward that my life was in danger. That someone, somewhere was going to try to kill me and she didn’t have specifics.” Donnelly’s expression softened at the memory. He looked almost chastened.

“You didn’t listen.”

“The woman had been lying to my face since the day we met. I think my skepticism was well-deserved.” The bitterness was unmistakable. “Besides, under the circumstances I wouldn’t have thought my safety ranked high on Detective Carter’s list of priorities.”

Reese moistened his lips, thinking. Leaves and branches crunched beneath his feet. “Then you don’t know her very well.”

“We have concrete evidence linking you to smuggling and organized crime, to multiple bank robberies and, with New Rochelle, murder-for hire.” The righteous fury rang hollow in his voice. Donnelly shook his head. “The woman I thought I knew would never knowingly work with a man like you.”

Reese could feel the start of a smile playing on his lips. He turned away, careful to ensure the agent wouldn’t see. “Then maybe I’m not the man you think I am.”

“Even if it’s true what she said, that you’re some kind of… guardian angel for strangers in trouble,” Donnelly said. He stumbled a little on the uneven terrain, steadying himself on the trunk of a nearby tree. The commandeered radio crackled at his side. “Vigilantism is no less of a crime. How many innocent people have been hurt because of what you do?”

“Fewer than if I hadn’t acted at all.” Reese shrugged lightly. The playful tone rankled, but he couldn’t resist. “Besides, you’ve seen my work. I try to keep the body count down.”

“I don’t know how it worked in the CIA, but here in the real world you don’t get a gold star every time you don’t… kill someone.” Donnelly trailed off. He’d stopped walking and had turned to face the road, barely visible in the distance. The tableau had changed; the black metal carcass was still smoldering, but a car was parked behind it — a steel-gray sedan, its doors open and its engine idling.

The radio coughed to life. “Does anyone have eyes on target?”

Donnelly turned to Reese. He shifted uneasily. “We can still make it.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Reese said, with an easy smile. “Uncuff me and give me your gun.”

“You want me to hand over a machine gun,” Donnelly said, evenly, “to a _professional assassin_.” Back on the road, a second car had pulled alongside the first; its occupants fanned out into the trees, hunting their quarry. “I must be out of my mind.”

*

“No more handcuffs.”

“What do you mean, no handcuffs?” Donnelly was stooped in front of a wailing man, the gunman’s belt now twisted into a tourniquet around his injured leg. The wounded man grabbed for his ankle and Donnelly shook him off with a muttered, “Yeah, yeah, buddy. Don’t push your luck.”

“I mean, no more handcuffs. They chafe.” Reese was knelt beside another of the fallen; he’d knotted the man’s wound at Donnelly’s insistence, but that wasn’t why he was there. He held up the man’s discarded AR-15. “How do you feel about assault rifles?”

“At present,” Donnelly said, surveying the groaning, writhing battlefield. “Not enthusiastic.”

Reese pushed himself upright. “Here, take this for now. If these guys brought friends, we may need the extra firepower.” He walked over and shoved the gun into Donnelly’s unwilling hands. Reese stepped back before he could protest, already starting to unbutton his prison jumpsuit. “Now help me find a KIA that’s my size. I’m going to need some new clothes.”

“Mr. Warren, I can’t just permit you to…” His voice had a desperate edge to it. If there was ever a moment he was in control of the situation, it was well and truly gone.

“What are you going to do?” Reese asked, with the quirk of an eyebrow. He was standing over the ex-marine from before. The man was shorter than Reese had remembered. He moved on. “Shoot me?”

Donnelly was looking at the assault rifle, still warm in his hands. He seemed lost, like a boy scout with a broken compass. 

Reese rolled a dead man over. Right height, fair condition under the circumstances — the shoes looked two sizes too small, but a start. “Your own people are trying to kill you. Once your life’s no longer in danger, we can do whatever you want.”

“You will turn yourself in?” Donnelly said, tentatively.

Reese hoped the look in his eyes was sincere. “Yes.”


	4. Chapter 4

Agent Nicholas Donnelly, one of the straightest arrows Finch had ever background-checked, was sitting in the passenger’s seat of Reese’s stolen gray sedan, staring out the window. His fingers tapped a nervous pattern against the butt of the assault rifle cradled in his lap.

Reese reached up, adjusting the rear-view mirror. A few cars behind, a marked police car had pulled in behind them. He frowned. “You’re going to want to tuck that under the seat or something.”

Donnelly glanced guiltily down at his charge before sliding it — barrel-first, he wasn’t an idiot — into the well of the seat. They were well within the city now. The dried blood from the head wound he’d sustained in the crash was attracting them enough attention.

“I must return to the office immediately,” he ventured, after a moment. “To say nothing of the fact my team was just cut down by hired thugs, if there’s a mole on my task force…” His expression soured, like he’d just sucked on a lemon. “That _doesn’t_ work for you, I need to be on-site, assessing the damage as soon as possible.”

“Like I told you,” Reese said, distracted. He was leaned over the steering wheel, peering through the windshield at the vendor stalls that lined the streets. “Until we can identify and neutralize the threat…”

Donnelly frowned. Maybe ‘neutralize’ had been a poor choice of words.

“We can do it your way,” Reese said, with a playful raise of the eyebrows. “You still have your handcuffs, right?”

The agent grumbled at that and slumped back into his seat, arms crossed petulantly.

“While you’re in danger, you don’t leave my side, and, while we can do that in lockup, I can’t protect you while I’m handcuffed to a chair.” The car slowed. He’d spotted what he was looking for. “Besides, I hate orange.”

“You have to at least let me call in,” Donnelly said. “Someone will have found the ambush site by now. It won’t take them long to realize I’m missing.”

“And what,” Reese asked, scouting for a parking spot, “are you going to tell them?” In other circumstances, he’d double-park, but in a stolen car with stolen weapons and an ostensibly kidnapped FBI agent in the passenger’s seat, he opted to walk the extra block.

Donnelly went quiet. That was a question he couldn’t answer. They drove in uncomfortable silence until a forest-green minivan pulled away from the curb a few cars ahead and Reese pulled over. “Where are we going?”

“To get in touch with a friend of mine,” Reese said. “He might even be able to help with your mole problem.”

Reese watched Donnelly’s face out of the corner of his eye. What little had remained of the fight in the man’s eyes had disappeared, replaced by a familiar glint of curiosity and cunning. The FBI had known about the Man in the Suit for months, but his mysterious handler remained an enigma. Reese had heard about Donnelly’s theories from Carter; on that score, the man had nothing but conjecture.

Reese threw the car into park and pulled the keys from the ignition. He turned to Donnelly. “Do you have your wallet with you?”

Donnelly felt down his pockets. “Yes, why?”

Reese nodded back the way they’d come. There was a street vendor midway down the block, standing guard over a table of knockoff electronics. He looked as weather-beaten as the decades-old raincoat he was wearing. Reese knew the guy. He wouldn’t ask questions. “Prepaid cell phones,” he said. “Buy two.”

Donnelly nodded, fishing the wallet from his pocket. He was leaning over to open the door when Reese grabbed his wrist.

“Actually,” Reese said, eyes flickering over the bloody stream dried to his face and the crimson hole in his jacket. He took the wallet from the other man’s reluctant hands. “Better let me do that.”

Donnelly frowned. “Why?”

“Because,” Reese said, climbing out of the car, “you look like you’ve been shot.”

The transaction went smoothly. It always did. Reese stood a moment, sifting through Donnelly’s wallet as he waited for the vendor to make change. Under other circumstances, he wouldn’t bother — working for a billionaire had its privileges — but, from the state of the man’s wallet, he needed it.

He accepted the handful of bills with a grateful nod and started to rend the phone from its packaging. Pre-charged, prepaid — a man’s best friend. Walking away, he thumbed in the number without even thinking.

“Who is this?” a small voice said.

“Finch,” Reese said, not even trying to hide the smile in his voice, “I thought you’d be happy to hear from me.”

“John.” The flood of relief was a welcome sound. “Thank heavens you’re all right. I heard your convoy was attacked — gang members, of some persuasion. The FBI has gone to some lengths to hush it up and I can’t seem to reach Detective Carter.”

Reese tried to keep his voice light; no reason to bring the man down, not just yet. But the words came out tinged with sadness all the same. “I’m not surprised.”

“Mr. Reese,” Finch said, speaking quickly. His voice was edged with anxiety. “One thing I was able to determine, though the FBI has taken pains to hide it — Agent Donnelly is missing. What’s worse, the Machine gave us his number this morning.”

Reese stopped walking about a car’s length from the stolen vehicle. Donnelly, still in the passenger’s seat, had turned and was watching him gloomily through the glass. This was a conversation he’d wanted to hear. 

Reese gave him a small wave. “I wouldn’t say _missing_ , exactly.”

“Agent Donnelly is with _you?_ ” The shock in the man’s voice was genuine, but then if someone had run the idea by him twenty-four hours ago Reese probably wouldn’t have believed it, either. “Mr. Reese, if you’ve kidnapped him…”

“I didn’t kidnap him, Finch.”

The passenger’s side door snapped open. Donnelly’s patience had apparently worn thin because moments later Reese was staring down a bloodied, angry FBI agent, the man’s arms crossed in irritation.

“We have an understanding,” Reese said. “In fact, he’s been very accommodating.”

“I will not participate in this farce,” Donnelly growled, “unless I have full knowledge of what’s going on.”

Reese set a heavy hand on Donnelly’s good shoulder, pushing him around and piloting him back to the car. He held open the passenger’s side door with a pained look before circling round to the other side.

“Mr. Reese,” Finch said softly. “What’s happening?”

The driver’s side door clicked open in Reese’s hands. “Agent Donnelly wants to be included.”

Finch sounded worried. “That seems unwise.”

“Have a little faith, Finch.” Reese slid into the car. “I’m putting you on speaker.” He hit the ‘speaker’ button, dropping the phone into the cup holder between their seats. “Can you hear us?”

The soft, tinny voice was barely audible, in large part because of Finch’s reluctance to be heard. “I can.”

“Hello,” Donnelly said. “I’m—”

“I know who you are, Agent Donnelly,” Finch said, voice crisp and professional. “And my assistance is predicated on you _not_ knowing who I am. Am I understood?”

“You are.”

“The attack on the convoy was an inside job,” Reese interjected. “We think a member of the task force was worried about being caught up in Donnelly’s mole hunt.”

“I fear you’re right,” Finch said. “Mr. Warren, about our mutual friend that I haven’t been able to raise.” There was a pause as he collected his thoughts. He proceeded cautiously. “ _He_ has been out of contact since this morning. I was expecting a call.”

“I assume you’re talking about Carter,” Donnelly said. His voice was gruff, but his eyes were tired and melancholy. “She was arrested.”

“But that’s impossible.” Finch was sputtering. “Detective Fu—Had that been the case, I’m certain I would have heard something.”

Donnelly sighed. He ran a broad hand over his face and looked out the window. The rest of the world turned on, oblivious. “I did it myself this morning.”

If he was expecting anger from the man on the phone, he didn’t get it. “Agent Donnelly,” Finch began, as the worry in his voice started to grow, “did you process her arrest yourself?”

“No, I left her in the custody of two of my agents.” Donnelly shifted in his seat, expression wary. “The moment I realized we’d been compromised, I moved to transfer the prisoner to a more secure location. Dufresne and Patel were supposed to handle the paperwork. Why?”

There was a long moment of silence before Finch’s voice returned. “That’s cause for concern,” he said, carefully, “because a mutual friend of Mr. Warren and myself observed Agent Dufresne meeting with a high-ranking member of HR around 11:15 PM last night. He wasn’t able to hear what they were saying, but he assured me the conversation was heated.”

The color bled from Donnelly’s face, his hands tightening into white-knuckle fists at his sides. “HR? It can’t—how is that even _possible?_ ” He rallied quickly. “Give me the name of your source and this ‘high-ranking member of HR’ of yours immediately.”

“I’m afraid that is impossible,” Finch said. “The HR member of which I speak remains our best chance at finding the true head of HR.”

“But we arrested the head of HR,” Donnelly growled. “I slapped the cuffs on the man _myself._ ”

“I have no doubt that Mr. Walker was corrupt, nor that he was a member of HR,” Finch said. “But I fear he was merely a pawn in a much larger game.” 

“ _This isn’t a game._ ”

“Agent Donnelly,” Finch said, patiently. “You received the bulk of your evidence against HR from anonymous source, is that correct?”

Donnelly stammered a moment before snapping his mouth closed. The realization was not a welcome one. “You can’t _possibly_ be serious.”

“I am,” Finch said. “Deadly serious. If HR has responded to its recent losses by infiltrating the Manhattan branch of the FBI, and if Agent Dufresne is one such double-agent, we have to assume Detective Carter is in grave danger.”

Donnelly nodded slowly. He looked around the car, first to the phone, then to Reese, who was sliding the keys into the ignition. He looked helpless. “What do we do?”

“We get her back,” Reese said, starting the car. “But first, I’ve got to make a stop.”

*

The apartment was as he’d left it the week before — neat, orderly and, most importantly, undisturbed. Finch’s considerable resources and understandable paranoia had led to the purchase of a second apartment in John Warren’s name some time ago; Reese had never been, but he’d been told it was very tastefully appointed. Somebody else watched over the place, occasionally replacing the contents of the fridge and leaving dirty dishes in the sink.

Or they had, anyway. Once all the investigators had cleared out, he doubted they’d ever get the mud from FBI shoes out of the carpet. And if they ever found this place, well…

The gun closet would make for an interesting subject of discussion, that much was certain.

Donnelly huffed disapprovingly as he stepped inside, crossing to one of the apartment’s large windows. He looked out over the park as the sun streamed in, shaking his head. “I guess it’s true what they say,” he said, as he stepped back out of light. “Crime pays.” He scanned the apartment with a practiced eye. “No personal effects,” he observed. His eyes lit on the staircase. “What’s up there?”

Reese was already shucking his scavenged coat, pulling his purloined, dirty gray shirt over his head. What he wanted was a shower, but the prospect of letting Donnelly prowl unsupervised was less than appealing. “Would you believe I’ve never checked?”

“No.” Donnelly looked at the stairs distrustfully. “Not really.”

“Bathroom’s through there.” Reese directed the man with a nod of the head. He rubbed the crumpled shirt across the bare skin of his neck like a rag. “There’s a first aid kit under the sink. Get yourself cleaned up.”

Donnelly watched him for a long moment but finally nodded. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll need a fresh shirt. I can’t go outside like this.”

“Closet’s by the door.” Reese waited until the bathroom door had closed before padding over to the closet, sliding the door open. His own clothes, an array of well-tailored suits and less formal fare for undercover work, welcomed him home. If he was feeling generous, he’d opt for something more discreet — khakis, perhaps, or the motorcycle jacket and a pair of boot-cut black jeans. But Donnelly was here for the Man in the Suit. It didn’t seem right to disappoint him.

He pulled the clothes from the closet, sliding the fresh earpiece he’d palmed from the counter into his ear as he moved. The fit was uncomfortable after a few days absence, but the companionship wasn’t. “Finch.”

“How is our new friend adapting?” Finch sounded understandably cautious. “I don’t need to point out the extent of the risk you’re taking.”

Reese stood outside the door to the bathroom, sliding on a crisp, white button-down shirt. His fingers made quick work of the small, white buttons. Inside, he could hear the water running. He moved on, making the quick walk to the kitchen, where he could finally wash his face and hands. “He’s a work in progress, but we’re getting there.”

When Donnelly emerged from the bathroom, Reese was fully changed and standing over the kitchen table, adjusting his cuffs. He had positioned the cell phone in the middle of the table.

Donnelly’s bulletproof vest was slung over his arm, his dull gray tie knotted tightly around his neck. Clothed and cleaned, he seemed to have recovered some of his bearing. The humorless set of his shoulders, the rigidity of his posture — he looked the part, even if the severity of his demeanor didn’t reach his eyes.

Reese leaned over the cell phone. “You were saying?”

“I see no record of a report being made. In fact,” Finch said, as the soft clicking of keys tapped away in the background, “since yesterday evening, Agent Dufresne has filed no paperwork of any kind. Nor, I note, has he used his work computer. That does seem odd, don’t you think?”

Donnelly took a deep breath and rubbed his forehead, wincing. It looked like he had a tension headache coming on. “That information is confidential. To access it, you would have needed to illegally access the FBI’s secure servers — an act which is, incidentally, a federal crime.” 

“I appreciate this is well outside your comfort zone, Agent Donnelly, but circumstances have forced our hand,” Finch said, still typing. “The extent of the corruption in the FBI is as yet unknown to us. Were we to contact the wrong person — or even the right one, if the guilty parties are monitoring FBI communications via their,” he coughed diplomatically, “ _secure_ servers…”

“We could call Washington,” Donnelly said. “There has to be _someone_ …”

“I’m sorry, but there just isn’t time.”

“We need to find Dufresne.” Reese crossed to the gun closet and threw the doors open. He could feel Donnelly’s eyes on him from across the room. “What can you do for us?”

“I can triangulate his approximate location using his cell phone.” The phone went silent, but for the furious clatter of keys. “His current location is East 116th and 1st, heading north. I’m sorry, Dufresne seems to be using an older cell phone — no GPS tracker to piggyback onto this time. The best I can give you is a three block radius.”

Reese heard the fall of footsteps behind him. He turned around to find Donnelly staring over his shoulder, inspecting the closet’s contents curiously. 

Reese reached over and plucked the grenade launcher from the wall. He hoisted it onto his shoulder. “I have a permit.”

Donnelly made an aggrieved noise as he walked back toward the kitchen. “Look,” he grumbled, leaning over the phone, “mystery man at the computer…”

Finch’s voice was tentative. “Harold will serve for the moment.”

“Harold, then. You’re logged into the FBI’s secure network right now, correct?”

“I can be.”

“Government vehicles have built-in GPS locators that can be activated remotely in the event of emergency. Provided you have — or,” Donnelly winced as he spoke, “can fake — the clearance, the capacity to activate the tracker should be at your fingertips.”

“For that to be of use,” Finch began cautiously. Reese could hear the smile creeping into his voice. “We would require the unique six digit tag associated with Agent Dufresne’s vehicle.”

The unasked question hung in the air for a long moment until Donnelly slid into a chair beside the table. He stared at the cell phone with tired eyes. “Provided he hasn’t switched cars since this morning, the code is 0A-8814. The location data from the phone company should be enough to confirm if it’s the vehicle he’s driving.”

Finch’s voice was quick and eager. He could smell blood in the water now and seemed keen to push his luck. “I seem to recall that government vehicles also posses hidden microphones built into their dashboards, also for use in the event of emergency. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Donnelly admitted, “but the feed is encrypted, so…”

“I’m in.” The line went quiet but for the distant clatter of keys. When Finch returned, his voice was strained. “Silence on the line, please. You will want to hear this.”

The feed was less than clear; the best anyone could expect of a hijacked signal run through a cheap, gray market cell phone, but her voice cut through all the same. The static never stood a chance. “ _—you could possibly be this stupid. Walters, Chow, them I can understand. Those morons never had more than fifteen brain cells between them, but you? I thought you were smarter than this._ ”

There was a noise, but it was muffled and indistinct. Laughter, possibly. Reese strained to hear.

“ _You think this is funny?_ ” She demanded. “ _I mean, do you really think an NYPD detective can just disappear?_ ”

Donnelly’s face was ashen and creased with worry. Reese recognized the look, a thousand doubts and terrors crashing against each other behind a man’s eyes. That kind of fear was paralyzing.

“Shut it off,” he said softly. The feed went silent. Reese emerged from the gun closet and crossed to the kitchen. He set his spoils across the table and stepped back, his face hard. “Take your pick. We’ve got work to do.”


	5. Chapter 5

The final step was to ditch the stolen car in favor of something less conspicuous. That meant a trip to the garage; a three-level, long-term parking structure half a block from Reese’s building. He guided Donnelly through its oppressive, concrete corridors, deftly avoiding the security cameras as they slid from blind spot to blind spot.

It wasn’t difficult. Finch owned the building and had been careful to hire a sub-standard security company. They did excellent work, to a certain definition of “excellent.”

He found the car where he’d left it, a sleek black BMW with New Jersey plates. He’d have to remember to change those later.

“Get inside.” Reese waved Donnelly to the passenger’s side as he circled round to the trunk. The lid snapped open; a heavy-looking black backpack from a previous job stared back at him, half-hidden behind his usual bag of tricks. He smiled thinly and slammed the trunk closed.

Donnelly was watching him from the passenger’s seat, expression incredulous, as Reese slid behind the wheel. The old bulletproof vest was gone, left at the apartment along with Donnelly’s service weapon. That had been a battle; even seated in a wanted criminal’s kitchen, planning an attack on a man who was still ostensibly a federal agent, the man was as obstinate as a mule in the face of abandoning his sidearm. It wasn’t a question of being unarmed, he had the whole of Reese’s arsenal at his disposal, it was _protocol._

Reese rolled his eyes at the memory. He swore Carter had never been this much trouble.

The man was wearing one of Reese’s vests now — a thin, discreet model meant to be worn beneath the clothes. In the end, they’d both agreed — whatever they had to do over the next few hours, they didn’t want ‘FBI’ emblazoned on on their backs while they did it.

Donnelly glanced back to the truck. “What was that about?”

“I like to be prepared.” Reese swung the car out of the parking spot with a practiced hand, leaning his head _just so_ to avoid the cameras as they sailed out of the garage and onto the street. “Where are they now, Harold?”

The use of the name made Donnelly’s eyes flicker, as if he was trying to gauge Reese’s familiarity with it by the tone of his voice. Still investigating, even while breaking every law in the book.

“Out by LaGuardia, heading east.” Finch sounded worried. “He has quite a lead on you.”

“We’ll catch him.” Reese turned to Donnelly, who’d been listening to the conversation on an earpiece of his own. “Tell me about Walters and Chow.”

Agents Frank Walters and Harold Chow were, it seemed, recent transfers to the task force. It was clear from Donnelly’s tone that he’d been dismissive of both of them long before Carter’s statement had called their integrity into question. Average agents that did average work, though they were, at least, punctual. It was clear from the way Donnelly spoke that, at least in his mind, that earned them some credit.

The appointments had come down from on high — unusual as, Donnelly insisted with the faintest hint of bitterness, under normal conditions he was permitted to select his own team. At the time, he’d attributed the intervention to his failure to produce timely results in the ‘Man in the Suit’ case; that, he understood, would have had consequences eventually. When the orders came down, he didn’t question them.

Reese leaned on the horn. What little progress they’d made had stalled; up ahead, the traffic was backed up for blocks. “Harold,” he said, with a soft growl of frustration, “we need a little help, here.”

“More than you know,” Finch said, with an edge of panic. “I think I’ve determined where our new friend is heading. He’s taking her to Oyster Bay.”

“Oyster Bay?” Donnelly seemed oblivious to the implication, to the shudder in Finch’s voice. “We have a safe house out there, he could be—”

Reese’s fingers tightened dangerously around the steering wheel. The man had had Carter for the better part of a day; she’d never talk, and it was clear he was tired of trying. “Harold, is there anything you can do?”

“I can try to slow him down,” Finch said, sounding doubtful. “Provided I am able to bypass the city’s firewalls, Agent Dufresne is about to have the worst luck with traffic lights he could ever imagine.”

Donnelly’s eyes widened in alarm. They seemed to be doing that a lot recently. “Setting aside the fact that hacking the Department of Transportation is shockingly illegal, tampering with traffic patterns is immensely dangerous. What if there’s an accident? What if someone’s killed?”

“I assure you, Agent Donnelly,” Finch said. “I am well aware of the risks and will do what I can to minimize them. I should be able to monitor traffic flow via NYC DOT’s own systems, with additional assistance from the city’s traffic cameras.” His voice was sincere. “I promise you, I’ll be careful.”

“That’s touching,” Reese said as the car lurched forward a couple of yards before grinding to a halt. There was a dingy yellow taxi on their left, making an aggressive play to cut into their lane. He closed his eyes and muttered a silent reminder that he wasn’t allowed to shoot civilians with an FBI agent in the car. “But if we’re stuck here, it isn’t going to help us much.”

The sporadic clatter of fingers against keys. After a few tense minutes, Finch spoke. “Now.”

The red light flashed to green, to the confusion of a couple of cars in the intersection trying to turn. They sped out of harm’s way as the river of traffic flowed through like blood through an artery. Up ahead, green lights marked their way like signal beacons, burning bright on a chilly autumn afternoon.

Reese smiled.

They closed the gap with borrowed time, a combination of closed lanes, red lights and unexpected detours that Finch assured them had left their quarry fuming. Carter’s mood had, in contrast, improved considerably; undoubtedly, she’d guessed their traffic problems hadn’t entirely been the product of chance.

By the time Dufresne’s vehicle was in their sights, they were speeding down a long, deserted stretch of highway. They’d lost the remaining weapons in their arsenal; out here, there were no stoplights to change, no temporary speed limits to adjust. It was just them and the open road.

They had few options and none of them good. Forcing the car off the road was a high-risk play; not only did they risk injuring Carter in the crash, but Dufresne was unquestionably armed. The moment he recovered, Carter would make for an obvious — and easily accessible — target.

The alternative, waiting for the kill site, had its own disadvantages. Unfamiliar terrain, the possibility of witnesses or accomplices or both — and that gun would still be trained on Carter the entire time.

They were discussing their options in low, tense voices when Finch broke through. He sounded harried. “He’s called for backup.”

“Backup?” Reese said. “From the FBI?”

“No APB was broadcast,” Finch said, typing furiously. “He placed a phone call to an unknown number fifteen seconds ago. I couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation, but it was apparent that Agent Dufresne believes he’s being followed.”

Beside him, Donnelly swore.

“Dufresne indicated a change of plans,” Finch said. “Agent Donnelly, you mentioned a safe house earlier. I believe that may be where he’s taking her.”

“If that’s the case, we need to take the car before it reaches its destination,” Donnelly said. “We choose our safe houses for their security, and if they’re expecting us—”

“What they’re expecting,” Reese interjected, “is me.” He watched as Dufresne’s vehicle picked up speed, veering dangerously into the other lane. He hung back, keeping his distance as the car turned off the freeway and sped in the direction of a small residential neighborhood. “Don’t worry. This is good for us.”

“Good for us?” Donnelly growled. “How can this possibly be _good for us?_ ”

“Because now they have a reason to keep her alive.” Reese’s voice was frustratingly calm, every inflection calculated to make Donnelly twitch. “And besides,” he added, with a cold smile, “they don’t know about you.”

They parked away from the safe house, in a darkened alley sheltered by high fences and the occasional tree, stripped bare of its leaves by the season. The sun was setting and the shadows were long, but the cover of darkness seemed almost superfluous. The whole area felt deserted.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog was howling. “We’ll wait until dark,” Reese said as he climbed out of the car, “then we’ll move.”

Donnelly followed as Reese circled round to the trunk. “But then what?” he said. “We need a plan.”

Reese opened the trunk. He shouldered the nondescript black backpack and zipped open the remaining bag. He could almost feel Donnelly’s eyes widen on sight of its contents.

“I have a plan.” Reese turned around long enough to push a gas mask into Donnelly’s unsuspecting hands. “Welcome to the team.”


	6. Chapter 6

The safe house was unassuming at first glance; a two-story gray building on a quiet, well-lit street in the Oyster Bay area. Its security features were unobtrusive, but effective. The backyard was secured by a high concrete fence. Lights mounted to the walls had been rigged with motion-sensing technology, while discreet cameras dotted the gutters and lurked in the trees.

Out front, what little foliage that existed had been trimmed to improve line of sight and to decrease the chance of an attacker lurking unseen on the property.

The next-door neighbors, their house dark and their car absent from their garage, had been less cautious in their landscaping. Reese crouched in the thick bushes holding a machine gun, watching as dark shapes moved across the safe house’s drawn curtains. The black backpack was safely strapped across his back.

“Harold,” he said, in a hushed voice. “Can you get eyes inside?”

“As one would expect,” Finch said, after a moment, “the bulk of the FBI’s security cameras are installed outside. As luck would have it, the house’s occupants seem unaware the feeds even exist. The cameras that _are_ inside — in the kitchen and in the living room, covering the exits — show our new friends peering uselessly out the windows.” He sounded almost offended at their ignorance. “Were they to actually explore the basement, I think they would find the vast bank of television monitors to be much more efficient.”

“They aren’t FBI?”

“Apart from Dufresne, and I think we can all agree that his claim to that title is suspect, it would appear not.” Finch hesitated a moment. When he returned, his voice was tentative. “In fact, if the FBI’s incident reports are to believed, from their distinctive tattoos I’d wager they were a part of the group that attacked your convoy this morning.”

Reese crept forward for a better view of the house, keeping close to the ground. “How many are there?”

“I count two men, both heavily armed, in the living room, watching the front door. They have a third on the back door, entering into the kitchen.” Finch’s voice wavered. “Dufresne has Carter at gunpoint. Both are seated at the kitchen table, well away from the door. Are you sure about this?”

Reese’s eyes flicked upward. The upper level was dark and empty, at least from this angle. “Is that everyone?”

“That I can see,” Finch confirmed.

“Donnelly,” Reese began.

“Second level looks empty from here.” It was a strange feeling, hearing the man as a disembodied voice in his ear. “But we won’t know for certain until we draw their fire.”

“Then I guess,” Reese said, pulling a heavy black ski mask down over his face, “we’d better draw their fire.”

He lunged out from behind the bushes, spraying the front of the house with machine gun fire as he ran. That got their attention; moments later, window panes shattered as a hail of bullets flew from the house and into the street. Reese emptied a couple of rounds into the nearest streetlight and ducked behind a parked car as broken glass rained down from above.

The area around him was plunged into darkness. The motion-detecting lights had been installed to illuminate those approaching the house; out on the street, away from their reach, all the men in the house could do was fire uselessly into the dark. 

Reese popped up long enough to return fire. Sure enough, a muzzle flash burst from a second story window. He ducked back down as a volley of bullets flew through the air, burying themselves into the car.

“We’ve got fire coming from the second floor,” he reported. “Donnelly, are you—”

That’s when he heard the explosion. Loud enough to wake the neighbors didn’t even begin to cover it. Moments later, the shooting resumed; short, sporadic and controlled bursts. The front door opened and a tall figure wearing a gas mask, clouds of tear gas dissipating into the air behind him, beckoned for Reese to come inside. He had the grenade launcher slung over his shoulder.

Reese pulled the gas mask from his own belt and slipped it on. He glanced to the second story window before making a run for the door.

Inside, Donnelly was waiting for him. Reese scanned the living room; two men were bleeding on the floor. “Was there an alarm?”

Donnelly shook his head. “They disabled it. I guess they didn’t want company.”

Reese nodded, starting toward the kitchen. “I’ll get her out.” The shooter from the second floor was charging toward them, eyes red and coughing, down the stairs. Reese sent him tumbling with a well-aimed shot to the knee. “You get the cameras.”

The whole house was still thick with tear gas, but in the kitchen the smoke had started to clear. The large hole where the kitchen door had once stood had improved the ventilation considerably. Carter was doubled over, coughing; her eyes were watering, but she was alive.

Dufresne was slumped over the table, coughing also. Unlike the others, he couldn’t have put up much of a fight; his head was bloody and his service weapon had been knocked from his hands, but he seemed otherwise unharmed.

Reese dug one hand into Dufresne’s shirt collar and wrapped the other around Carter, pulling them both outside into the cool, clean night air. Carter gulped at the air like a fish out of water before pulling him into a one-armed hug. “God, John,” she said, her voice scratchy. “You sure know how to make an entrance.”

He pulled off his mask and smiled into her hair; in hindsight, laced with tear gas, not the smartest decision he’d ever made. He winced as his lips started to sting. “Sorry about the wait,” he said, stepping back. He let the backpack slide from his shoulder onto the ground. “I got held up.”

“Dufresne said they’d sent a team to take out Donnelly,” Carter said. She rubbed at her eyes with her hands, but it only seemed to make the stinging worse. Thick black bruises circled her wrists; souvenirs from her side of the ordeal. Reese didn’t want to think about what her clothes might be hiding. “Did he make it out alright?”

“You’ll have to ask him that.”

Behind them, Donnelly had emerged from the building. He peeled the mask from his face, his expression somber. “I disabled the cameras and wiped the hard drives, per your friend’s instructions, but, as we’ll soon be having company, I’d recommend you both leave _immediately._ ”

Police sirens were sounding somewhere in the distance. Wherever they were, they were gaining ground.

Carter took a couple of blind steps forward. She couldn’t see him, or much of anything, but she didn’t need to. The voice was enough. “Jesus, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he said. He watched her for a long, quiet moment. “You?”

“Been better,” she said, with a soft smile. “Now, stop standing around like an idiot and let’s go. We’re not leaving you and I’m sure as hell not going to prison for that scumbag.” She pointed back to Dufresne, fire flashing in her eyes.

“They have to answer for what they’ve done,” Donnelly protested, growling angrily, “for what they’ve let the FBI _become_ —“ 

The passion rose in her voice. “And you think that, what, falling on your sword will accomplish _anything?_ It’s not how the world works, Nick. I know you’re a good man, but if you’d open your eyes once and a while _you’d see that—_ ”

Dufresne, still disoriented and half-blind from the tear gas, had been slouched against the wall, staring dully at the interloper with unseeing eyes. 

Reese grabbed the man roughly by the neck, wrenching him back into his arms. He slid a needle from his pocket and buried it into Dufresne’s neck. The man slumped over, unconscious, almost immediately.

Donnelly wheeled on him, gun raised. “You want to tell me what the hell you’re doing?”

“I know you kids have a lot to work through,” Reese said, hoisting the bulk of the man’s weight over his shoulder. “But we don’t have time. Help me get him back inside.” He looked over at Carter, who was watching him with an unimpressed look. “Grab the backpack. We’re going to need it sooner than I expected.”

The empty tear gas canister clattered under foot as they staggered back into the building. The tear gas had largely cleared, but the air burned Reese’s throat. He stood in front of the kitchen table, holding the unconscious man upright. “I was going to take our friend here on a little vacation somewhere nice and remote,” he said, glancing at Donnelly, “but if you’re going to be difficult…”

Carter was hovering in the remains of the doorway, holding the backpack. He gestured her inside. “Dump the contents on the kitchen table, then get out.”

“I’m going to assume you know what you’re doing,” she said, upending the contents onto the table as asked. Five carefully wrapped bricks of white powder tumbled out, each pressed into a block of about a kilogram each.

Donnelly just stared. “Is that… cocaine?”

“Carter,” Reese said, sliding on his gas mask, “get outside.” He held the unconscious man out in front of him like a shield. “Donnelly, put on your gas mask, step back, and do the honours.”

“You must be out of your…” He stared at the kitchen table, at the scene they’d created in front of them. Slowly, but surely, the last of the pieces slid into place. He sounded almost astonished. “You’re making it look like a drug deal gone bad.”

“See, now you’re getting it.” Dufresne wasn’t a small guy; Reese adjusted the man’s weight in his arms. Outside, the wail of sirens was getting louder. “You wanted him arrested, now’s your chance.”

Donnelly took one final look at the cocaine, snapped on his mask, and stepped back. The bullets tore through the bags, sending plumes of cocaine into the air, coating everything they touched with a powdery film of white.

Dufresne took the brunt of it. When the dust finally settled, the man looked like he’d been rolling in icing sugar. 

Reese shoved him into his chair and left him, unconscious, beside the drugs. His own suit was more or less pristine; though less comically dishevelled than Dufresne, Donnelly had not been quite so lucky.

“You’re going to want to burn that suit,” Reese said. He grabbed Donnelly by his good shoulder and steered him out the door, where Carter was waiting. She was smiling. They stole across the backyard and escaped into the alley as, outside the front door, police sirens started to howl.


	7. Chapter 7

“Ever look at yourself in the mirror and realize you’re not as good a person as you thought you were?”

He’d been drinking, but then he’d been drinking every night for the better part of a week. It was a new place, too; not the usual haunt, a subdued establishment not far from the FBI’s offices on Federal Plaza where he and a handful of friends (more properly, colleagues — they’d been keeping tabs on Donnelly long enough to know that true friends were far and few between) would sometimes unwind after a long day’s work. 

No, he’d picked a bar on the far side of town — a seedy, blue-collar hangout, where neon beer signs lit the walls and the light in the men’s room was always broken. It was the sort of place an unassuming man, slouched at the bar, could count on anonymity. He never spoke to anyone, but when pressed he’d spin them something about how his wife was cheating on him.

Not too far from the truth, when you thought about it, though Reese doubted Carter would see it that way.

Reese let the question hang in the air, unanswered, before returning to the half-empty glass of beer in his hand. They’d been the first words Donnelly had spoken to him since he’d sat down next to the man ten minutes ago.

“Patel turned up, or so they tell me.” Donnelly drained what was left of his glass — a cheap single malt scotch, or whatever passed for one in a place like this. He caught the bartender’s eye and the man walked over, drying an empty glass with a rag. “Dead in Dufresne’s trunk the entire time. But I’m guessing you already know that.”

The bartender, a heavyset man in his late forties, seemed like a genial man. He smiled at Reese, who obligingly smiled back. He turned to Donnelly. His voice was rich and warm. “Who’s your friend?”

“He’s not my friend.” The sharpness in his voice seemed to catch the bartender off guard. Donnelly’s expression softened a little. “Again,” he said. He clinked the glass with his finger. “Please.”

The bartender nodded, taking the glass away. Moments later, it returned, refreshed.

“Carter might have mentioned something,” Reese said, once the man had drifted out of earshot. The dead agent had been a subject of discussion. Dufresne had shot the poor man dead minutes after Donnelly had left for Rikers. “Spoken to her, recently?”

“No,” Donnelly said, “and I don’t intend to.” His voice was hoarse and his eyes were red and raw; not for the first time that night, Reese wondered when last the man had actually slept. “What possible purpose could it serve?”

Reese’s lips quirked — not a smile, but close. He leaned forward, resting an elbow leisurely against the bar. “I seem to remember you two making quite a team.”

“From your perspective, I suppose we did.” Donnelly was hunched over the bar, toying with the glass in his hands. He made little effort to mask the sourness in his voice. “Besides, you may recall that I’ve been suspended, pending completion of an investigation into my conduct. Regardless of its outcome, my lack of welcome at the Bureau has been made abundantly clear.” 

Reese held his own beer glass aloft, inspecting it. “I read the report,” he commented, before setting it back, untouched, on the bar. His tone was complimentary. “You have a gift for prose.”

“Thank you,” Donnelly said, bitterly. “That’s very comforting.”

Reese shrugged lightly. “You stuck to the script.”

“The ambush, the kidnapping, being held hostage in an enemy safe house until securing the escape both of myself and my prisoner, every word as we discussed.” He shook his head. “I was methodical and careful as, from the state of the physical evidence at the ‘safe house’, were you. And Agent Dufresne, not unsurprisingly, was unwilling to further implicate himself by challenging my story.”

Reese nodded, bringing the glass back to his lips. “Mr. Warren is grateful for your assistance, by the way.”

That earned him a sour look. The discovery that ‘Warren’ was an alias had been a disappointing one. It was like building a foundation on quicksand; the moment Donnelly thought he had a single scrap of something concrete, something real, the world would shift and he’d be suddenly left with nothing.

“Would it have fooled you?” Reese set the glass back down, empty. The bartender circled back to collect it, but Reese warned him off with a look.

Donnelly frowned. “I don’t follow.”

“If someone had come to you with a copy of that report,” Reese said, patiently. He tapped the bar with his fingers for emphasis. “With all the physical evidence — the bloody shirt, the vest, the ballistics, the missing agent’s fingerprints at the scene — and no obvious reason to lie. Would you believe it?”

He sighed. “Probably, but it would seem I’m not very good at my job.”

“You caught me and I’m very good at what I do, and what I do,” Reese said, with a shrug, “is not get caught.”

Donnelly watched him warily. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying,” Reese said, “someone at the FBI wanted you dead and now, as far as they’re concerned, you are.”

“So where does that leave me?”

“The way I see it, you have two options.” Reese made a show of leaning back on his stool to scan the room. It was your usual Thursday night crowd; a mix of drunks and barflies, with a few local kids coasting on fake IDs and the occasional lonely soul looking for love in all the wrong places. “You could stay here. Replace work with alcohol, see how long your liver holds out. But that wouldn’t be my choice.”

Donnelly looked down at the glass, then turned to Reese. “And what’s your alternative?”

Reese slid a thin file from the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pushed it across the bar. “You have the look of a man in need of a job.”

_*fin*_


End file.
